Facing Karma
by ardy1
Summary: An Accountability fic. We are what we choose to be. An exposition of Miroku's upbringing as he accepts the trials of his family curse and his personal life choices.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is such a fully developed fandom, I hesitate to offer anything.

On the other hand, I confess a certain dissatisfaction with the general treatment of Miroku. Not that there haven't been many wonderful depictions of him; it's the general tenor that bugs me. And, of course, it seems anything concerning him must rise the highest of sexual ratings. That doesn't bother me, since I don't expect any great reading of this, although it may take a while to warrant it.

I know I shouldn't attempt to write fanfiction. I don't have the time and my muse may desert at any moment. Still, I am compelled to offer something regarding facing karma…

Chapter 1

He was too young.

That's what he told himself as he tossed off the remnants' of his father's and Mushin's bowls as the elder monks dozed on the steps, noting the burn that followed the unpleasant taste and its cleansing warmth as an aftermath.

Children shouldn't be cleaning up after their elders this way, or, at least, not so damned often. Every time his father returned to the temple was another excuse for Mushin to ordain an orgy. The alms box raided for the teahouse's demands.

He stepped gingerly over the geishas sprawled haphazardly, blocking his way.

But then, maybe he shouldn't be so angry with Mushin who was, it seemed, at least as fond of his father as he was himself.

Still, it bothered him. After all, his father was at the temple so seldom; Miroku had few opportunities to show his father his progress in calligraphy, his rendition of classic literature, theory, and theology – that such time should be wasted in drunken debauchery, leaving him wholly ignored, was an insult.

What _was_ he to his father, anyway? Surely he was more than a tool to carry on the quest for family vengeance… wasn't he? When he was sober, the dark eyes of his father left him in no doubts of his affection. But it seemed that sobriety and his father were no better mated than Mushin and his status as a high monk.

The women clustered around his father's snoring figure, only one or two clasping themselves against Mushin's more rotund form. Miroku allowed himself the uncharitable thought that High Monk Mushin had agreed to train him out of a desire for the company that his wandering father inevitably brought upon his return to the mountain temple, even if that company required additional payment.

He knew he was too young to be so cynical, or so aware.

It didn't stop him from learning to discern the difference between good sake and bad.

-----------------

The constant pressure of frigid water pounding his head, shoulders, and legs as he sat in the lotus position beneath the falls reminded him of earlier days, when he had first learned to release his understanding of the spiritual energies seething within his consciousness.

It had happened early enough that, combined with his observations of his elders' iniquitous behavior, he had begun to suspect that power was not so much a matter of purity as of focus and discipline. Where Miroku failed in purity of thought he excelled in focus and curiosity. When sufficiently motivated, he could bring that missing discipline to his natural gifts to harness a surprising amount of spiritual power at a young age. And he learned at an abnormally early age that there were more subtle kinds of power as well.

The mere seconds it had taken to reabsorb his own spiritual past through the pounding fury of the falls cued his integrated awareness to a determined shifting of the balance between what he had always thought of as light and dark…

-------------------

Mushin had protested yet again when he'd opened the shoji to the late morning light. He'd been equally impervious to Miroku's pleas that the pilgrims had come a long way for a blessing from a true high monk, insisting that Miroku's blessing would do as much or more for them than anything he himself could bestow.

Given his familiarity with the high monk's current state of detoxification Miroku suspected that Mushin was in fact quite correct. Still, he felt guilty that these pilgrims had come so far for so little.

His creative childish brain conceived a massive deception, which he excused by means of "creative" interpretations of Buddha's servants' role in assisting the enlightenment of souls.

He'd felt immensely foolish attempting to manage walking on stilts, Mushin's sacred mantle covering his dark locks as he strained his voice to achieve the dulcet tones of prayer required for a convincing blessing. Even so, he'd poured every vestige of his own spiritual power into the words, an unconscious request for forgiveness winding its way among his chanting and the smoking incense.

His awkward bow and retreat into the depths of the temple had left the pilgrims confused, until he'd managed to shed Mushin's blessed kesa and circle round to lead them back onto the veranda, where a modest banquet awaited them. Funded, of course, by their own contributions to the temple's upkeep.

Given how often Miroku found himself repeating this subterfuge he was astonished by the temple's continued recognition as a hallowed site. Over time, he began to suspect that Mushin was more deserving of his status as a high monk than he believed. It never occurred to him that the spiritual powers of a mere child could have such an impact.

-----------------


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Slight revisions to Chapter I since I posted. This is intended to be one of those fics that takes place over multiple time periods, initially primarily the past with hints of the "present"._

_Disclaimer: Cause I forgot the first time. Don't own it, not claiming it, am exempt from litigation thereby._

Chapter II

As he flexed tired muscles to bring the farm wife's second bucket forth Miroku felt inclined to snort. Mushin could be the very devil at coming up with creative punishments for his admittedly frequent infractions of temple rules. Hauling water from the village well at the base of the mountain was wholly unnecessary given the temple's proximity to a rushing clear-running stream. But drawing buckets up for the villagers' use was rough work for a ten-year-old, as well as an excellent lesson in compassion.

Miroku also suspected that it provided a nice picture of piety that served to keep the temple ingratiated with the village women. After all, Mushin was a lousy cook with a large appetite and he relied on those women to supplement his diet with frequent gifts of well-prepared dishes.

Either his upper-body strength was improving or his sense of ill-use was dulling over time. In the spring this task had sent him groaning back up the mountain by mid-day, but the sun had been lowering in the sky for some time and, although he was tired he wasn't yet sore. At least the villagers didn't generally expect him to carry their water to their huts as well as draw it up from the well.

And she hadn't come yet.

Miroku was disappointed. Every other day he'd been sent to this task she had been among the first women at the well, waiting patiently for her turn to fill her bucket. And every other day as he handed the full pail over to her, careful not to slosh water over the sides, he had found his usually glib tongue tied up in impossible knots. Able only to nod in return for her thanks as he watched her stagger away with the heavy bucket.

Most of the women at the well were, to his eyes, old and careworn. He'd begun to understand the appeal of the powdered and painted faces of the geishas and tea-house girls for his father and Mushin. Then the next person in line was a tiny slip of a girl whose kimono bared browned knees above calves still chubby with baby fat. But her face framed the widest, most velvety brown eyes he could ever imagine possible, and a smile so sweet and shy that he felt his heart drop into his stomach to lie there like a leaden weight the rest of the day.

She was no older than Miroku and her bucket was clearly too big for her. That first time he filled it only half-way, sure she could not manage to carry it if it were full. But the other women chastised him for expecting her to make two trips and have to wait in line again. His face burning, he wordlessly refilled the bucket, passing it to her gently and watching her struggle away after giving him a nod of thanks and a repeat of that wonderful smile. One of the women who'd complained raised her brows and archly suggested that if he wasn't going to get back to the task at hand perhaps he should abandon it to help the girl carry the bucket home. He'd quickly turned back to the well.

And when a few days later Mushin had sworn potent curses in exasperation at yet another failing on his part, assigning him to the village well again, Miroku had gone without complaint. Well, without very much complaint; it wouldn't do for Mushin to think his punishment was ineffective as a deterrent, after all.

She never did come. Two siblings had stumbled down the path, carrying the bucket between them as the sun kissed the treetops lining the clearing around the well. They'd grumbled about sister's fever and mum's distraction feeding the baby. There was no particular worry in their voices, but Miroku noticed how the few women left near the well stood apart when they appeared.

As he pulled up the rope with their bucket he murmured blessings, searching his mind for those particularly associated with health and well-being.

The dark shadows filling the path as he climbed his way back up to the temple were echoed in his mind. Miroku attempted to formulate questions he could ask Mushin that would address the dull ache in his heart without exposing him to the monk's tart teasing. Mushin seemed to take great pleasure in seeing signs of his father in the young boy. Miroku wasn't altogether sure he appreciated the comparisons.

But all of that disappeared when he stepped in the temple's unusually brightly lit doorway. His father had returned!

-----------------

Despite regular application of the old miko's herbs and the young miko's lotions, the skin lying beneath the fine dyed linen gauntlet bound by his blessed rosary beads was cracked and dry. The throbbing in his palm was a constant factor underlying his existence, although he no longer felt the pain of it, just a dull, unrelenting pressure.

It was a constant reminder to return to the eightfold-path; all life was suffering. And his life would, at least, be short.

Despite his training, he found little comfort in the thought.

--------------------

Miroku had been somewhat surprised. A veritable feast had been laid out, and he recognized jars of sake well beyond what the temple's coffers could generally provide.

But there were no women.

His father had been different that night as well. He'd gripped Miroku's shoulder tightly, causing him to wince and then laugh to disguise the pain. Then he'd quizzed him sharply on his studies, commending some examples of calligraphy while bemoaning sloppiness in others. He'd laughed uproariously at Mushin's tales of his various inequities, causing the older monk to comment dryly on unbroken molds and the fruits of tainted trees.

Miroku had been pleased when he'd quoted what he'd thought was a rather obscure poem only to have his father finish the final line for him as his hand tousled bangs that always seemed too long for a neat appearance but too short to pull back behind his ears, let alone fit into any kind of queue. It was only his admiration for his father's thick braid that stopped him from shaving his head altogether like Mushin or his own grandfather.

But for all the attention he had received that evening he was also deeply aware of a striking sense of melancholy emanating from his father. Mushin's cheerfulness was also clearly forced.

And when the full moon had reached high in the sky melancholy had shifted to outright pain. The fine lines edging his father's eyes and mouth gained stark prominence as he'd suddenly hugged Miroku and then rushed for the door, stumbling in his haste.

Miroku had attempted to follow, sudden comprehension and childish disbelief warring within him. He made it as far as the path outside the temple gates before Mushin caught him, holding him back as the world itself seemed to spin in the firmament, the heavens rocked and unholy hell screamed about their ears.

He barely noticed when Mushin wrapped a rosary string across his outstretched palm to stifle the echoing wail wrenching physical as well as emotional pain. His father's inheritance.

Miroku never did ask Mush directly about the feelings inspired by the girl at the well.


	3. Chapter 3

Mushin had insisted he continue his studies at the mountain temple, despite Miroku's own judgment that their library was limited and even it provided evidence of divergent paths regarding enlightenment that could be learned elsewhere

_A/N: So, finding this story itches a bit at my sense of "unfinished business", I will continue._

_That said, since I'm claiming nothing, nor contesting anything, legally, I suggest we move on…_

_Chapter 3:_

Mushin had insisted he continue his studies at the mountain temple, despite Miroku's own judgment that their library was too limited. Even _it_ provided evidence that divergent paths existed regarding enlightenment, and that those path could best be learned elsewhere. Miroku could learn _more_ if he went to the great temples or monasteries.

And maybe _there_ he would find evidence of his family's enemy.

Mushin protested. "My boy, all you need to know is how to control the _kazaana,_ how to fight like the demons you will battle, how to protect yourself against them…"

And here the elder monk drew a finger aside of his nose with a smile. "And how to make a comfortable living in the meantime. I think I know well enough to teach you that much."

Mushin was confident that even Miroku's thirst for knowledge and experience would be far too likely… _dulled_ elsewhere. At least, in ways his father and grandfather had never intended.

Since his father's death Miroku had been far too grim, and, with his refined features and remarkable eyes Mushin had feared sending him as a _chigo_, or acolyte, to the greater monasteries. It would be all too easy for him to fall under the sway of a particularly _astute_ mentor there, who could adeptly demonstrate means of alleviating various forms of desire without seeming to encourage attachment.

All, of course, well within holy Buddha's purview.

Having spent some time within such precepts himself Mushin fully understood himself as incompetent to judge on such practices as far as the boy was concerned (for himself, though, that was another matter). He would, in fact, have been relieved to defer to another authority. There was certainly enough of a sensuality about the boy that could have found solace in these ways, and nothing yet to suggest any particularity when it came to one gender or the other.

However, Mushin had promised the boy's father to inculcate in Miroku the Confucian duty of propagation to appease his family line's need for vengeance. So, no. Much better to expose the boy to the more conventional forms of satisfying the desires of the flesh. That meant keeping him away from the temples until he was both old enough to be able to assert his own path and deeply enough steeped in his ancestors' tastes to prevent any vulnerability to others' influence.

And when obligation met inclination without confrontation, the resulting harmony provided auspicious karma to all concerned.

That it happened to suit his own inclinations was simply a reflection of his own remarkable karma.

Mushin bowed and whispered half-remembered prayers, largely praising the speaker's sagacity in his obedience to Buddha's precepts.

Hell, he hadn't made it to high monk simply by sleeping his way there!

--

"I still don't get it. How you can be a monk with fairly impressive spiritual power and an equally impressive lecher is beyond me." Kagome growled, her heart aching for the pain she saw in Sango's eyes.

Inuyasha tossed a branch he had been whittling down absently during their conversation into the fire, sending sparks into the air. "Huh. I'm not sure I see that there's a problem between wanting to mate and being strong, spiritually or whatever. What I see as the problem is his wanting to mate with every pretty girl that comes along."

There was something of a squeal from Sango's corner.

Miroku sighed. This was one of the reasons he had preferred to travel alone. It was hard enough finding a path that satisfied his family's needs, his religious perspective, and his personal desires. Reconciling that path with others just added a layer of complexity he really didn't want to deal with.

Still. Their comments offered an opportunity share a theological perspective in which he found comfort. And it might get them off his back for a while.

"I'm guessing none of you is actually all that familiar with Buddhist precepts," he said dryly. "Would it surprise you to know we actually have ideals for living as well as for burying the dead?" It would be a start, anyway. And it wasn't as if he objected to sharing the Buddha's wisdom…

"Well, duh!" Kagome stuttered. "Wasn't that my whole point?" Damn him! Miroku was the master of distraction, and bringing up his diligence in ensuring funeral rites for every corpse – or piece of a corpse – they came upon was a _tour de force_. He had made a truly monumental effort – dragging Inuyasha and herself into the process – well before meeting Sango, for the demon-slayers' village. And since Sango was fully aware of this effort as well, Kagome was reasonably sure Sango would force them to drop the subject.

"So fuck. You people do more than deal with the dead?" Leave it to Inuyasha to follow a conversational thread literally, ignoring the efforts of a more subtle brain to lead them astray. Kagome silently rejoiced. "Does that mean you're gonna explain why – besides the fact you've the appetites of a drunken lord, that you wanna fuck every pretty woman you meet?"

Miroku bowed his head, dredging through his memories to find a way to explain simply something his heart no longer felt assured of anyway. Maybe it was a mistake to try to explain that it was not desire itself that was problematic for his faith, but rather the likelihood that _unresolved_ desire would become attachment, and attachment interfered with the search for enlightenment. The problem was explaining the whole concept of attachment.

And when he thought of Sango's eyes – wholly ignoring her glorious, incomparable ass, impossible as that might seem – the whole lecture as to the benefit of avoiding such attachment was absurd, impossible and unreasonable to even discuss.

With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, Miroku lapsed into a simple sutra on the virtues of compassion, illustrating it by his staff's jingling rings warning of even insects of his passing so they could get away from being inadvertently crushed. Happily, no one questioned his skill with said staff at breaking bone or crushing skulls. Instead, Shippou pronounced a theory on the value to life in general of crawling ants.

--

"That's crap. Ka-ka. Excrement. Poo. Or," and here the young monk's lip curled as he took pleasure in voicing yet another term in the vernacular for what he saw as nonsense. "A load of shit. Which any farmer would tell you has to be spread thinly, if you really expect anything to take root and not be asphyxiated. You're just trying to explain why you and my father indulged in every opportunity to fornicate that you could grasp."

Mushin found Miroku's current fascination with the application of simile at every opportunity both strained and tiresome. Equally tiresome was his ability to discern uncomfortable truths. Ah, but, the boy had wit, and that he missed more in his dead friend than even the handsome reprobate's ability to attract more women than even he could handle on his own. One could always buy company, especially of females, but cleverness and, something rather more refined – sheer charm - was priceless.

"Are you saying you feel no stirring in your blood at the sight of a pretty face, a particularly sensuous form?" Mushin had not been blind to the signs of Miroku's impinging puberty. A dropped staff when performing a previously perfectly executed kata when high-pitched giggles announced the delivery of the village's weekly meal offering; stuttering of an elemental prayer mastered years ago when the presence of the family during the blessing included the daughter of the house, were clues a far less astute man than Mushin would have recognized.

He had been relieved to see these signs, actually.

It suggested he had not failed utterly in exposing the boy to temptation. Surely all that was now necessary was providing the proper rationalization for succumbing to such?

Miroku shrugged. "Are you suggesting I should value a human being the way I would appreciate an exquisite form of art? A lovely vase, an exquisitely embroidered tapestry, a perfectly rendered haiku? For sweet Buddha's sake, are you suggesting I equate savoring the female form with a well-aged sake?"

Mushin's eyes bulged. Damn. He'd known the boy was precocious, but was it even possible for one so young to be so sagacious? "Exactly, my boy! To recognize and, in experiencing it, appreciate the splendor of what is offered, and then let it pass by, as all things temporal must. Ah, and, the beauty of it all is, _for you_, in that in putting desire behind you this way you are also still potentially bringing forth the next generation to avenge your ancestors should you fail." Mushin, lazy monk that he was, had a fine appreciation for efficiency that did not sit well with most Buddhist theology.

"And if I do _not_ fail?"

Mushin was heartened by the determination he saw in those dark eyes. The face was so like his friend's (except for those eyes, in most circumstances an uncommonly beautiful violet hue, no doubt an inheritance from the woman he had never known). Still, Miroku's father had been determined as well.

"Ah, my boy. Then you will have children to praise your achievements and record them for posterity's sake.

The child Miroku clapped his hands together forcefully.

"Shit. Again I say shit! If I fail, there's just another poor kid who never knew his mother, stuck with learning how to _give_ everything and end up with _nothing_. Maybe," and here he gazed at his rosary-bound wrist in fascinated horror," "He will know even less of his father than do I."

"You're not supposed to think of failing." Again Mushin hardened his heart. Much as he had loved the boy's father, he saw a core of strength in the son that struck him as some kind of concentration of the attributes of the family line.

But as he watched, he wondered at the wisdom of closely-read scriptures, portents, and pondered strategies in the face of wide-eyed innocence. Miroku's next words indicated rather more understanding of the conflicts inherent in the various principles regarding the trials of the wheel of life, among others, that he'd tried to instill than a boy on the edge of adolescence should be capable of

"Who wins, Mushin?" Miroku whispered. "Can I kill him and still leave his soul open to the search for the Pure Land? Is my soul then tainted? If I don't kill him, how can I be forgiven the burden I leave behind on my child? What if I don't continue the line? The curse would end with me, but we would all die unavenged. Should I do what is best for my own soul, or must I consider the souls of the rest of the world? Does Buddha have an answer for this?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

_A/N: I like this story, so I'm not prepared to abandon it. That said, real life is rather demanding._

_Disclaimer: Still no argument as to claims of ownership elsewhere. Can we relax now?_

Chapter IV

Mushin had required that Miroku master a simple spiritual barrier before allowing him beyond the range of the temple or the village at the base of the mountain and its potent strength.

The local barrier spells had been set by Miroku's grandfather, almost longer ago than Mushin could remember, and fed by itinerant priests even as Mushin himself developed strength, along with Miroku's father. Over time, an enormous well of spiritual energy had been poured into the lintels, courtyard carvings, and the lesser-lived paper wards. Similar wards lined the path to the village, and Mushin kept a thriving business periodically selling the same to householders within the village proper.

Not, of course, that he called such transactions 'sales'.

Not long after Miroku had passed that particular test, Mushin had taken him on a trial journey to test his ability to subdue youkai. They'd stumbled upon the tanuki Hachi just outside the spiritual wards of the temple. He'd been living there in the temple's protective shadow from greater youkai for several decades, observing and developing an absurd (to Miroku) idealization of the monks' prowess.

The boy's simple subduing charm, bound into the ofuda he'd flung upon sensing the blameless raccoon demon, had stung like the dickens, not to mention effectively prevented him from either transforming or running. Being the inherently clever tanuki he was, Hachi threw himself at Miroku's feet, whining at the pain and begging to put himself at the boy's service.

After all, Hachi was as aware as Mushin regarding the source of the temple's greater power. Even as Miroku learned his prayer cycles, the high monk had assuaged the greedy demon's tastes with simple extensions to his natural transformation spells, supplemented by occasional participation in festival celebrations.

Hachi recognized power and respected it. While he appreciated Mushin-sama's willingness to allow him to continuing maintaining residence near the temple, he was far more concerned as to Miroku's interests. Following Mushin's command, he never actively promoted Miroku's mischievousness, but no raccoon could deny its glee at the boy's more outrageous contretemps, especially when they were particularly clever or even very nearly wholly successful.

Miroku, being merely human, thrived on the tanuki's almost silent encouragement.

Over time, the errant boy had no qualms about bribing the tanuki with visions of shared gains. The raccoon's sense of mischief was greater than the boy's, if his courage was something less. In any case, between the two, they formed a formidable team.

The first time, they were gone for six months, and Miroku still but a boy, not yet thirteen.

While the kazaana howled upon release beyond anything either tanuki or boy could imagine or control, the two had found bravery in its presence, and Miroku returned to the temple still more recalcitrant than he had left. Mushin angled heavy, hard-muscled arms towards his belly as he raised compactly-fingered hands to the sky, bracing non-existent forms against his own splayed fingertips, blunt against the dawn in a pantomime of retribution.

Somewhere, he was sure, neighboring priestesses were likely to tremble.

He continued to hope in the reality that Miroku had been more early schooled in the power of semantics than in demon warfare. After all, at this point it was the only real card he held over the boy.

As he meditated on Miroku's punishment, Mushin considered. Who knew which served him better in the long run? Did Miroku himself wondered just what, among his prayers of forgiveness, his foster father had offered each day to allow Miroku to wander unprotected and unobserved

Mushin had welcomed Miroku back with stern words and threats of back-breaking sessions of wood-chopping and water-drawing on behalf of the villagers. Miroku had reminded him of his father's welcomes of warmed sake and pliant female arms, suggesting dryly that perhaps Mushin did not fully understand the properties between carrots and sticks.

Th old monk had found himself smiling, and compromised with a gift of a scroll from the Continent and a collection of rumors regarding Naraku, too old to find any value in following up immediately. Miroku was not above being bribed; and Mushin still had no qualms about delaying his own journey to the Pure Land to help the boy along the way.

That said, it was several days before Miroku admitted how much his hand pained him, finally showing the elder monk how the flesh had torn during a battle with a nasty bear-demon. Mushin had sighed heavily as he dosed the boy into a heavy sleep while he tediously and carefully stitched shut the tear, infinitesimally shifting the seal around the fragments of exposed skin.

He was not surprised when, some months later, Miroku and Hachi had taken off again.

--

So many years of assessing the worth of 'potential clients' didn't disappear with a proposed change of heart. It was but the work of a moment for the jaded young monk to determine the sophistication of the local marks and their potential for 'value maximization' against local liquidation values and potential future risks.

So why did the hope of earning one girl's smile take precedence over weighing this calculation against his soul's karmic balance when deciding to put his shoulder to a farmer's cart stuck in the mud along the way?

And while logic assured him that the old rationalization that a cloud of ill will necessarily gathers over _any_ mercantile establishment _still_ held true, he found himself earnestly searching a building's aura more specifically. It somehow had become important to customize the blessings written into the wards he provided; that they deliver value beyond anything garnered by his little group's room and board. Why guilt should suddenly have taken root in his soul after all this time remained something of a mystery to him, but it made him distinctly uncomfortable. So he considered the effort it took to assuage the guilt by providing honest blessings, with no sign of having lapsed into the error of attachment.

When he had a moment he considered the phenomenon. It was new to Sango's having joined the group. Well, lovely as she was, it shouldn't have made _that_ much of a difference.

Miroku was an adept at denying his own inclinations for attachment – a far better Buddhist than his father – but also better equipped at self honesty. He wanted to appear to this girl to be a good man, even if he could never claim to be a truly good monk. As to why her opinion mattered to him? Well, since at this point his lust for her was almost overpowering he saw no real point in exploring the issue.

But Miroku was not prepared to abandon the faith that had given his ancestors and himself the strength to survive their curse. As for the demon slayer, well, surely he had bedded women more beautiful, and, given the lack of any progeny, did anything else really matter?

--

He'd used his soothing words to bury her husband.

Carefully, he'd toned his voice to indicate admiration and praise as he voiced the prayers for the dead, lighting incense and bending his bared back to the chore of digging the grave. Hachi had made a point of curling his abandoned kesa around the small area dedicated to expressions of care and honor, even as his master stroked with the spade.

After, the widow and the monk had shared tea. They were much of an age – she was a new wife to a landholder with orphaned babes to raise, called up to his lord's service in a war ill-defined. Her lord was an oaf, and the adolescent monk suspected that his small holding would find itself under another's rule within the year. After all, the lord owed her family sustenance.

With this in mind, he made his first suggestion that the young widow add to her obligations on society with yet one more child. This one fathered by the handsome and personable young monk.

On the third visit, she acquiesced. She was, in fact, disappointed to find that their liaison had not, in fact, resulted in a child.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Here I am climbing myself above my personal concerns to take a swipe at the fun of fanfiction, mind you full of resentment! _

_Grr – for the cost of my soul fan-fic should offer something in recompense…Alas, my reading of the law laughs in my face…(_in saner moments, I would say, "And this is a problem because…?")

Chapter V

The headman looked upon the boy in acolyte's robes, doubt darkening his countenance. "Your concern does your calling well, Boy, but while the demon bothering us so far asserts merely petty concerns, his strength against the wards we've already purchased indicates he is strong. Certainly beyond _your _means. However, I think we've spent enough to hold him at bay."

Adolescent Miroku bowed before the headman.

"Ah, your caution is a clear indication of your wisdom in leading your village. I have a proposition for you," Miroku cursed the lack of control he had over his voice; it still hinted at too much youth and indecision. He resolved yet again to perfect evoking the dulcet tones that Mushin used to sway his listeners, _whatever_ his intent.

Still, the situation reminded him that style and finesse were not always enough to survive a simple cheat. Or, for that matter, any effort, good conscience or bad. In the meantime, perhaps it was just as well that the headman sent them to wait on the village's southern flank – among a small collection of storehouses - and with very few to observe them. He caught Hachi's eye, his face devoid of any expression beyond pious concern. Almost imperceptibly, he glanced at the buildings, one eyebrow ever so slightly cocked. The tanuki's whiskers twitched, and both eyes closed briefly.

Miroku ostentatiously bowed his own head as he planted his finialed staff into the soft ground, raising his rosary-shrouded hand in the familiar aspect of prayer and reverence. His lips moved in an inaudible show of apparent incantation. While Hachi sidled away on a tangent to the storehouses.

After a suitably long period of devotion – certainly long enough to shield Hachi's shift in direction and surreptitious entry into the first of the buildings of interest – Miroku roused himself as if in sudden decision, and walked towards the village's main open square. He needn't have worried too much. The smattering of old men who had remained to offer some protection few women that had not already holed up with the village's children within several of the storerooms (Hachi trusted his nose to avoid those particular buildings) were just as happy to see the handsome young monk leave. The women had gone all coy and starry-eyed not long after his appearance, even the older ones who should have known better. After all, he was just a lad, and a monk no less. Handsome was as handsome did, and a good sword would have served them better than his pretty words.

Once out of their sight in the alley leading to the main square Miroku abandoned his fearless stride for a more cautious approach. While he remained confident in the ultimate authority of his kazaana over any opponent, his experience with the vortex's sudden growth – and obvious curtailment of his life expectancy – when it was ripped in battle had bred within him newfound respect for Mushin's lessons regarding self-preservation.

He couldn't end his family's curse and kill Naruku if he died through carelessness before ever facing the abomination. At least, not until he had managed to leave behind an heir to take his place.

With some difficulty, he submerged his concern over producing an heir – and the sensual gratification such efforts would provide – as he considered the ways of subduing the demon that had brought this village to such a pass, and his ability to deliver them.

It should be an excellent test of his ability to confront Naruku.

-----------------------------

He'd had more beautiful women than the demon slayer before, although try as he might he could not remember a one of them now. Damnit, he'd seduced princesses before! Unfortunately, he could recall the treasures they'd bestowed upon him more easily than their names or even territories.

So why, if he had become so blasé regarding the sensual battlefield, did _this _particular warrior woman haunt his dreams so? Since she had joined their little troupe he had stepped up his flirtations and attentions to every other woman they met along the way, desperate to rid himself of the hold she'd taken upon his imagination.

Her value as another antagonist of Naraku's was unquestioned, although certainly at first her loyalty to them was unsettled. She _deserved_ a place within their group – her pain was at least as great as any of the others.

He blamed it on Kagome. The silly chit had been the impetus to his leaving his solitary ways behind him, with her ability to sense the jewel shards. And once he'd gotten over the attraction of her form and face, thanks to Inuyasha's vigilant refusal to allow even a dalliance with her and her odd time-warped attitudes towards virtually everything, he'd found himself growing fond of the girl for herself. He felt reasonably sure that the protective instincts he now felt towards her – like a family member he'd never had, perhaps – were rather different from those of Inuyasha's. But, that wasn't the point.

The point was that he'd come to _know_ the girl and her funny ways of thinking, and realized that while admittedly odd, they were not so alien to his own teachings. Which made him look again at women in general wholly anew.

And from there he was doomed. That the creatures who could provide blessed release from all worldly concerns could also provide intelligent insights into those concerns was a new and life-altering concept for him. He wasn't sure if he would ever quite forgive Kagome for this particular epiphany.

Not that it would have mattered if they hadn't come across Sango.

The beauteous Sango promised all that within a few short days of regaining consciousness. Clearly, this time attachment threatened Miroku's place on the Path.

He knew that his search for vengeance stacked daily against his karmic balance. His romps through the bedrooms of the wealthy, the barns and stables of those with less privacy to offer, and the occasional encounters in field, forest or – when truly desperate – teahouse, obviously weighed against him. Even _he _didn't wholly believe that his antics were merely a means of avoiding attachment. Blessed Bhudda in all his wisdom, Miroku's endeavors in carnal experience rested at least as much in simple pleasure and escape as they did on furthering his family line. Had any one woman struck him as particularly capable of such long-term escape he wouldn't have bothered to laugh at his upbringing.

It wasn't as if he were a monk by choice.

Still, he'd tried industriously to avoid attachment on either side every time. His forays into petty – okay, often _not_ so petty – thievery he'd always been able to justify through his practice of sharing his ill-gotten gains with a local temple or shrine, the addition of attempting to tie his soul to another's by more than just physical bond, and that was not something he was prepared to deal with

But he could find no justification for the temptation to follow her walk with his gaze; for how he looked for hidden depths in her every utterance; for the way his heart warmed as she struggled with her own honor and affections. This was no mere physical lust or compassionate affection that he had to deal with here. Nothing to be explained away in Buddhist precepts.

Admitting the truth to himself, he'd finally rationalized that only a fool or a saint would expect to achieve enlightenment in a single life, and he was reasonably sure he was neither. So seeking out Sango's love was hardly a real sacrifice. And then their next battle had required the kazaana, and Miroku was reminded of his own imminent mortality, and of Sango's losses to date. And in an instant, all of his previous struggles appeared to him in their obvious selfishness.

If he found a way to make Sango love him, and they should fail in their quest, she would be robbed yet again of a loved one as his kazaana consumed him. Perhaps he would not even survive so long as their final battle with Naraku.

Ah. He gained new understanding of the way to suffering through attachment. It was quite possibly too late for him – he was caught up in concern for her well-being well beyond his normal 'love' for his fellow man. At this point, his only hope for stemming the karmic tide was to prevent her from caring – too much – for him.

With determination, Miroku narrowed his vision to the easy prey of feckless village girls.

---------------------------

As it happened, it was a mere bear youkai that had been threatening the village. Mind you, it was a large one, but previous experience already had shown that as long as it was not a female protecting its cubs, the male was definitely obtuse. And quite manageable.

Miroku grimaced. He was just as glad that he hadn't needed to unveil his kazaana; clearly the path to his own death lay there. The village had found the young monk's heroics sufficiently overwhelming after his ofuda and final blows killed off the beast within an hour of its having persevered through the village's wards to strike with demonic claws through the nearest hut, rending it into kindling.

Miroku'd spent some ten minutes or so assessing the youkai's form as it battled the villagers, swiping them aside with no finesse. Granted, near as he could tell, finesse was not required. Still, if it were brought to bear – ah, no pun intended – it might be sufficient to turn the tide of the battle, along with the spells buried into his ofuda. Of course, as a last resort, there still remained the kazaana.

As he watched the bear youkai systematically dismantle the village's defenses he no longer found that particular consideration to be compelling. Miroku leapt into battle.

Hachi smiled as he considered the stash of goods he'd pilfered from the storehouses prior to the eradication of the bear-youkai. It was a nice haul, but it paled in significance to the offerings after Miroku's highly visible aerial performance against the demon, accompanied by the blue lightning of exploding ofuda and exploding bone and musculature as the shakujou was brought home at temple and, seconds later, with an upwards swing at the liver. The final move especially had splayed all either involved or merely watching in a highly satisfying fountain of gore, echoed by the cataract of the bear's body as the young monk landed gracefully some feet away, gently bringing one kesa-swathed arm across his brow as if to clear his vision.

One of the things Hachi admired most about Miroku was his instinctive ability to gauge his audience, and apply his performance thereto.

Now _this_ was magic!


End file.
